La Danse Macabre
by Fanfic Lover 4evr
Summary: Cemeteries are a dangerous place to be when the sun goes down. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn has turned into a fight for their lives. The Brothers are separated and injured with an angry spirit on the loose. Time is running out for them.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, I just like to play with the characters. :)

Authoress Notes: I meant for this to be a one chapter story... but it didn't work out that way. Luckily all who like it, there will be more to come. ^_^ Ooh FYI, 'La Danse Macabre' means 'Dance of the Dead', or 'Dance of Death', whichever way you see it I suppose. It is by Michael Wolgemut. You can look it up on Google just by requesting in the images for 'La Danse Macabre', by Michael Wolgemut. :) Let me know what you think of the picture, please! :D It's the picture that inspired this story.

This is Wikipedia's ideas as to what the picture meant: "'La Danse Macabre' is a late-medieval allegory on the universality of death: no matter one's station in life, the dance of death unites all. 'La Danse Macabre' consists of the personified death leading a row of dancing figures from all walks of life to the grave, typically with an emperor, king, youngster, and beautiful girl—all skeletal. They were produced to remind people of how fragile their lives and how vain the glories of earthly life were."

Beta: I don't have one... so the mistakes are all mine. I apologize in advance.

Summary: Cemeteries are a dangerous place to be when the sun goes down. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn has turned into a fight for life. The Brother's are separated and injured with time running out and an angry spirit on the loose. Will the brothers be able to face down the Dance of the Dead? Read and find out.

* * *

"La Danse Macabre"

Chapter One

* * *

The chipped formica table he was currently sitting at was a very ugly shade of puce, making his features twist in a dirty scowl. "Seriously?" he mumbled to himself. On top of the god-awful 60's impersonation the hole in the wall dive was trying to embody, the waitresses were missing teeth on top of other impressionable features.

"It's not that bad Sammy," Dean Winchester, older brother extraordinaire told his baby brother with a shit-eating grin.

The younger Winchester shot his big brother a glare and turned his head, so he was looking out the window and not at the disaster known as 'Pinkys'. "Remind me again why we have to stay in the next town over from the actual hunt we're supposed to be investigating?"

Dean shrugged, playing with the salt shaker that sat in the sticky table. "Safer this way. No record of us in their town makes us harder to track down if things go south."

"Aren't we paranoid?" Sam taunted his brother. "Usually I'm the one that shoots for discretion, not you, Conan the Destroyer."

Dean threw his middle finger up at his brother, smiling before going back to his menu.

"It's a simple salt and burn Dean, we've done this before," Sam shot back at if he was telling someone with half a brain. "Besides, Paul Lando gave us all the information we need. We even know where the body is located."

This time it was Dean whose face twisted into a glare. "I'm trying to be careful Sam; I thought you of all people would appreciate that since I apparently shoot first and ask questions later. Like a rookie," Dean spat out the last part with a bit of venom in his voice.

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head.

They'd been having issues with each other lately. It was easy to start attacking one another when trapped in such close courters the Impala provided for longer than a week. The petty blows were on the rise since they'd entered the dilapidated town of Plainway. Sam had been sure that the name of the pathetic city wasn't a coincidence. They were actually supposed to be in the next town over, a fairly large, but quaint homely sort of place called, Willowfield.

"What can I get you handsome boys today?"

Sam looked at his brother to see him smiling charmingly at the buxom waitress, who was presumably in her forties, wearing way too much eye makeup and had pink lipstick smeared across her yellow teeth. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry, at least for the fare that this grease pit had to offer.

"Well Darla, I'd like the Big John Combo and a slice of that fantastic looking cherry pie," Dean told her with a giant smile.

The tone in his brother's voice made him sound like a charming and polite gentleman, but Sam recognized the tenor from a lesson his father had taught them years ago. If you're eating in a questionable restaurant, which was all of the time for them nowadays, then be exceptionally polite, because you never what they might do to your food.

"Sure thing sweetheart," Darla said to Dean with a wink from her fake eyelashes. She turned her attention then to Sam, who went immediately to puppy-dog-mode. "How about you hon?"

"Grilled cheese please," he said with an equally dashing smile. His father had taught them well.

"Coming right up." Darla took their menus and swaggered off through the swinging door that read 'Kitchen'.

"A storm is heading in tonight."

Sam glanced up at his brother, frowning slightly. "We get to dig up a mud pit then?"

"Hey, at least we know we'll be covered. Nobody will be able to hear anything over the rain and wind," Dean told him with a sour expression on his face. Sam knew how to push his buttons, complaining about the hunts or taking pot-shots at his intelligence. His was up for neither tonight. "Suck it up Samantha."

Sam ignored the comment and continued staring out the window, watching the dark clouds swirl overhead.

When their food arrived, they ate silently, content on not provoking each other any further.

Once they returned to their motel, the term Sam thought was used too liberally for the crapshoot they had been calling their home for the past few days.

"Get some sleep Sam; we're heading out at two to Willowfield. The quicker we get this over with, the sooner we can head to Bobby's."

Sam watched his brother head into the bathroom and sighed, sitting down on the lumpy, stain covered bed. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. The beginnings of a headache were beginning to curl into his temples. Maybe some sleep would do him some good.

The younger Winchester kicked off his shoes and crawled up the mattress, falling face first onto the mattress. Slowly sleep started tugging at him and he let it pull him in, the sound of thunder ushering him into his short rest.

* * *

"Wakey, wakey little brother."

Dean watched Sam's face wrinkle in annoyance as he disrupted his nap. "The siesta is over Sammy, we need to get a move on. I want to be at Bobby's by tomorrow afternoon."

"Five more minutes," the sleep ridden voice begged.

The older brother shook his head, hiding a small smile. For as many times that Sam proved to be nothing short of a pain in his ass, his little brother knew how to play him. "Fine, but if you aren't up by then I'm going to flip your mattress over."

Sam grunted and went quiet again, apparently agreeing to the terms.

True to the agreement, Sam was up in five minutes, sitting up on the edge of his bed and dragging his shoes on his feet. He yawned and wiped the remnants of sleep from his eyes. They needed to be alert if everything was going to go smoothly.

"You ready?" Dean asked pulling his leather jacket on and hefting his duffel over his arm and onto his shoulder. He watched his little brother, and could make out the tense lines around Sam's eyes, instantly recognizing the symptoms of a headache.

"Take these," Dean ordered as he threw a little white bottle at his brother, catching him in the head.

The sound of thunder broke the silence in the room. Pitter patters followed signaling the beginning of the storm.

Dean grinned. "Right on time."

Dean's attention turned back to his little brother, watching as Sam thumbed off the lid and letting four brown pills slide into his palm. He threw them back into his mouth and swallowed them dry, quickly popping the lid back in place and tossing them back to his brother.

"Let's go." Sam hefted his own duffel over his shoulder. He was just as eager to get this salt and burn done with. He could almost envision the slightly more comfortable mattress waiting for him at Bobby's place. At least he'd have someone other than his brother to talk to and have on his side in case a prank war ensued.

Dean had always had a strange way of unwinding.

* * *

The rain was dropping from the dark sky in droves, only being seen when a bright zigzag would light up the sky long enough to see tiny droplets descending from the sky by the thousands.

Willowfield was just fifteen minutes from Plainway, and the two Winchesters were parked behind the giant cemetery, in the woods, a few minutes thereafter. The large cemetery was surrounded by a small cluster of woods, hiding it from the naked eye.

They had scouted out the gravesite the day before. Finding its location had been the hard part, taking a better part of the day to track down. The cemetery covered 250 acres, and about 9 ½ miles of winding roads. This particular cemetery dated back before the Civil War, with many of its occupants having died from different wars and illnesses that had taken place over the last 200 years.

In short, it was old, and filled with a lot of tragedy, bad blood, and anger.

An old friend of their father had given them a call, explaining that he believed a spirit was causing illness to spread around the little town of Willowfield. Cholera was the diagnosed illness, scattering through the small town like the bubonic plague.

It dawned on Sam that maybe that's why his brother wanted them far from the small town. It made sense, and he was a little surprised he hadn't realized it earlier. Perhaps the many nights of not sleeping and migraines were beginning to weigh down on him.

Apparently the illness has confused and left many physicians in shock, because cholera is an illness that had become uncommon as healthcare has improved. And this disease can wreak havoc, being extremely contagious, spreading from person to person. From what Sam can remember, the doctor had told them some of the symptoms included diarrhea, vomiting, cramps, weakness, increased heart rate, coma, and death.

He distinctly remembered Dean's face turning a light shade of green at the rather detailed information.

The doctor also explained that if not caught within hours, and treated, this it is most certainly lethal. The disease dehydrates the body rapidly and causes the organs to go into shock from the dehydration. The illness was never typically so aggressive, but people from the town had started rolling in with severe symptoms, and unfortunately for some, the healthcare arrived too late.

Hence the Winchester's arrival. This wasn't typically the back story for one of their hunts, but the spirit connected with the up-cropping of illness was a menace and had taken lives. It was one that needed to be put to eternal rest.

With equipment in hand, both Dean and Sam made their way to one of the walls surrounding the cemetery.

"Watch your back Sammy; we don't know if this thing has friends."

Sam nodded and decided against telling his over-protective brother that he wasn't five and knew how to watch both of their backs.

Their research had shown that the security was not as up-to-date as they expected, and it was a small blessing that tipped in their favor. The rain was going to make the dig longer and harder for them to put the spirit to rest. They needed all of the blessings they could get.

The brothers walked, side by side through the rain, threading in and out of the many trees growing in the cemetery in search of the headstone they were searching for.

"This wasn't so hard yesterday," Dean shouted out loud, above the rain, wind, and thunder.

Sam looked at his brother and half-grinned, wiping back his rain-matted hair. "Maybe it has something to do with the million gallons of water being dumped on us."

Dean shook his head and shot back sarcastically, "Nah, it can't be that Sammy."

"Wait."

Dean came to a halt, half-turned to look at his little brother.

"This is it."

The older Winchester walked over, dropping the shovel and gas can. He clapped Sam on the shoulder and beamed at him. "You were always good at finding Waldo, Sammy."

Ernest Sheridan was carved into the giant headstone that lay before them.

The two wasted no time, grabbing their shovels and plowing into the ground. When the whole got too big for them to climb out unaided, they started taking turns.

It was the loud 'thwack!' noise that caused Dean to stop his furious digging.

"Bingo!" Dean shouted as he threw the shovel out of the deep grave. "Gas can, Sammy," Dean asked, nodding approvingly as the red container was passed to him.

"Dean?"

It was then that Dean could feel the shift in the wind and rain. He turned and looked up at his brother who was shining the light off into the distance, looking at something. "Sam, what is it?" And before Dean's eyes he watched as his brother was picked up by something he couldn't see, and thrown beyond his line of vision.

"Fuck!" Dean cursed turning back to the coffin and ripped the lid open to expose a hideous corpse. He dumped all of the accelerant on the dried corpse with one hand while pulling out his lighter with the other. The cap was flipped back and he flicked the gear until the flame was present.

It felt like the same moment that Dean had dropped the lighter, engulfing the body in flames, and slamming a foot into the soft mud, forcing his hands and feet to find purchase to get his ass out of the grave.

"Sam!"

* * *

It took just a moment for Sam to realize that he was in the presence of something that didn't want them there. The feeling crept over him like a veil, causing a shiver to run up his rain soaked back. In the darkness he saw something flicker and move. _Shit._

"Dean?"

It was an instant too late. He hadn't even had time to raise the shotgun full of rock salt before the spirit had appeared right before him, skeletal hand wrapping around his throat and tossing him like a ragdoll. The breath was forced from his mouth and he had no breath to scream.

The impact jarred his entire body and caused a white hot pain to register throughout his back and head. Sam could dazedly make out his brother's worried voice call out to him, but his lungs still had yet to inflate before the angry apparition was in front of him again.

Sam's eyes widened at the gruesome remains of Ernest Sheridan and he tried bracing himself as a hand of inhuman strength wrapped around his forearm and lifted him off of the ground. Just then a pop sounded through the air, and Sam flopped to the ground. He looked up to see Dean heaving, smoking barrel of the shotgun pointed to where he'd just been standing.

"Are you alright Sammy?"

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice enough to give a verbal answer.

"Angry sonofabitch," Dean growled, quickly moving over to his little brother.

Dean could have sworn the gas had been enough to release the hold this guy had on the earthly realm, but he was sorely mistaking. And before Dean was even halfway there; Ernest reappeared slamming into Dean, throwing him backwards and disappearing in a puff of dust.

"Dean!" Sam was back on his feet in an instant, all pains either forgotten or buried deep down. He moved towards where his brother had been thrown, far away from Ernest's grave, and behind some thick foliage. "Dean?" Sam listened but he couldn't hear anything over the deafening drops of rain and howling wind. "Where are you?"

The younger Winchester could feel the panic rising in his chest as he realized he was unarmed and separated from his brother. "Dean?" he tried again, moving slowly and cautiously through the foliage being careful to memorize his surroundings.

It wasn't long before he'd entered a new clearing of headstones. "Damn," he cursed and turned back to head back to where he came. Where the hell could his brother have gone? Sure footed, Sam took a step to his left, a step that cost him dearly.

Sam felt the ground beneath his feet shift and before he could try to stop himself, he was swallowed whole by the wet cemetery ground. He felt disconnected as his body was free-falling down into the muddy hole. But he could feel as things impacted his body and forced his limbs to twist and catch on unknown objects. He even heard himself scream before his body slammed into something impossibly hard, his head bouncing off of an object he couldn't see.

Sam blinked, feeling droplets of rain splashing against his face. His body screamed in agony and his vision blurred, mixing into gray. Body going numb, Sam knew his consciousness was abandoning him and giving him reprieve from the pain that pulsed with his heart beats.

With his last bit of clarity, he saw a blurred shape standing above ground, peering down at him. Then the world tilted and his eyes rolled upwards, consciousness releasing its hold.

* * *

TBC... I'd love to hear what you thought. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Authoress Notes: Thanks to all who reviewed! It means a lot to get feedback and to know the story is being enjoyed, I appreciate that very much. ^_^ I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter, and I hope that you will like this one as well! Ooh FYI, 'La Danse Macabre' means 'Dance of the Dead', or 'Dance of Death', whichever way you see it I suppose. I should have put that in the first chapter, but it slipped my mind. :) This story was inspired by the picture named 'La Dance Macabre', by Michael Wolgemut.

Here is a link to see it: ... or not, it won't let me put up the link so just go search on Google for La Danse Macabre, by Michael Wolgemut. Yeah, it's pretty much awesome. lol

Summary: Cemeteries are a dangerous place to be when the sun goes down. What was supposed to be a simple salt and burn has turned into a fight for life. The Brother's are separated and injured with time running out and an angry spirit on the loose. Will the brothers be able to face down the Dance of the Dead? Read and find out.

* * *

"La Danse Macabre"

Chapter Two

* * *

"Sammy!" Dean had been searching for his brother for the last five minutes with no luck.

After being thrown into some underbrush he thought he'd seen the ghost reappear further down the cemetery. He made chase, only for the thing to smile its half rotted lips at him and blink out, disappearing into the stormy night again.

Worry had followed when he realized his baby brother was not behind him and began nipping at his heals. He had turned back, making his way to the grave and peaking in to see the thing still alight with flames. Annoyance shortly made itself known from the apparent 'slow burn' route the corpse was taking.

Dean's constant calls weren't doing much, and his cell phone call to Sam's phone was a pointless one when he saw the thing light up where Sam had been thrown several minutes before. A few expletives followed as he began walking around his immediate location.

The older Winchester brother cursed the unpleasant weather for not being able to hear anything over the clapping rain and whipping winds. It also didn't help that the visibility was about ten feet in front of his face. He was really beginning to hate Willowfield not to mention Ernest Sheridan.

"Sam, can you hear me?" Dean waited, walking slowly and cautiously through some undergrowth, rock salt-filled gun positioned tightly and aggressively in his grip. "Where are you little brother?"

As if a Godsend, a bright rod of lightening snaked out across the night filled sky illuminating the outline of something in the distance that appeared in Dean's line of sight. "Sam!" And Dean was off and running towards the figure, shotgun still in a protective hold next to his body.

Dean's military sanctioned work boots did well at gripping the wet grass and mud as he made quick work of weaving calculatedly through the trees and bushes that blocked his path. He ignored the tiny stings made by the droplets of rain slamming into his face, and kept his attention on the spot he'd seen the outline before the lightening had disappeared and the light source vanished, allowing the veil of darkness to once again descend.

As he got closer another bout of lightening flared up the sky, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing over a hole and looking down, head tilted to the side, and what Dean imagined to be a curious expression was Ernest Sheridan. His throat dropped into his stomach and he could feel his insides turning as he quickly put two and two together.

Sam. Sam was down in that hole.

Years of training battled against his big brother sense and won out as his brain subconsciously factored in the many different possibilities and his brain shifted to deadly hunter mode. He crouched, awkwardly putting one foot in front of the other while making sure he was covered by the thicket that outlined the new clearing of gravestones.

The sky lit up once more, seemingly on Dean's side of this melee. He could clearly make out the robotic jerking form of Ernest Sheridan not far off in the distance. He took a few more cautious steps, getting closer but remaining under the cover of the bushes.

Cold and calculated, Dean watched like a lion stalked its prey.

Dean wrapped his hand around the throat of the stock, gently placing his finger on the trigger, and moving his other hand to grasp the forearm. He once again cursed the weather as he gripped the gun firmly; the rain was going to be a hindrance for him reaching his target. But all of that pointless worry melted away as he watched Sheridan's form stoop down as if to slide down into the grave after Sam.

"Fuck," he whispered knowing his window of opportunity, and Sam's luck was quickly running out.

Dean braced the butt of the gun against his shoulder and zeroed in on the figure. The gun snapped into place and he put the correct amount of pressure on the trigger.

POP!

The sound floated through the night and vanished as the sound waves faded under the sound of the rain.

Dean was already running as he heard the tell-tale screech as his shot met its mark and disappeared into a cloud of dust. "Sam!" he called, heart thudding angrily against his sternum. He had no idea what he'd find; all he could do was pray his brother was still alive.

In seconds he was standing over the deep hole. "Sam!"

Beneath him was his little brother, lying deathly still, covered in muddy grime.

Dean could make out the blood on his little brothers head, dripping across his temple before it mixed with the rainwater, turning pink before sliding into the dark earth that surrounded him. His brain shifted to autopilot after that, and he quickly bent his knees and dropped down into the hole.

"Sam?"

Big brother Winchester grasped Sam's slack face in his hands and with one hand loosely cradling the back of Sam collar, carefully rotated his neck until Sam would be staring straight up into the stormy night sky. He sighed as he felt the comforting pulse beneath his brother's skin and began studying the injuries that stood out on Sam's pale face.

"If you didn't have bad luck Sammy," Dean mumbled, relief flooding through him.

Dean appraised Sam, recognizing the signs of the sure concussion his brother had, as well as his dislocated left shoulder. He wouldn't be able to get any further until he got Sam out of that godforsaken hole and back into the Impala and then back to their motel in the next town over.

The older Winchester could feel his time running out; the spirit would undoubtedly be showing up again any second to try and finish them off. He could smell the burning corpse in the distance and wasted a few seconds wondering why the damn spirit hadn't fucking dissolved into nothing and gone off to meet his maker.

"Sam," he turned his attention back to his brother. After no answer, he lightly tapped Sam on the face, trying to elicit some sort of reaction. "Come on Sammy, up and at 'em. We need to get the hell out of here before our friend comes back to make us permanent residents."

Running out of options, Dean fisted his hand and rubbed it roughly against Sam's sternum on the opposite side of his dislocated shoulder. "Wake up dammit."

A low moan rose to meet him.

"Thank God!"

Dean continued the rough treatment until hazel eyes barely poked out beneath the slightly cracked lids and rain matted hair. "You with me Sammy?"

The eyelids opened wider and Dean winced at the dilated pupils starring dazedly up at him. _Shit._

Sam's vision swam, and he saw his brother leaning over him. The pounding in his head made itself known, and he felt as if it was the size of the moon. "Bah," the sound moved breathlessly past his lips. "Mmmm," he moaned as the rest of his body woke up and pulsed angrily with each heart beat. "Hr'ts."

Dean let out a chuckle and pulled his soaked brother up into an awkward hug. "I bet you do Sammy."

"Happened?" Sam slurred the question.

"I think the rain caused an empty crevice in the ground to collapse when you walked over it. It couldn't support your weight," Dean guessed and explained. It seemed logical enough anyway. "I fucking hate the rain by the way."

"Makes two of us," Sam said breathlessly, slur still prominent in his voice. "Damage?"

"Your shoulder, and possible concussion," Dean informed. "Maybe some ribs too."

"Great," Sam groaned.

Dean suddenly felt the hair rise on his leather clad arms. "Shit."

"What?"

And suddenly Ernest Sheridan was down in the hole with the two Winchester's.

Both brother's eyes widened and Dean scrambled, trying to cover Sam protectively while leaning for his shotgun. He didn't get the chance to grab it as he was thrown quickly against the side of the hole, back slamming painfully into outcropped twigs and sharp rocks.

"Dean!" Sam rolled to his side as quickly as his battered body allowed, vision swimming and pain flaring. He saw the gun lying next to him and grasped it as Sheridan advanced on his brother. It was in his hands and his brain flipped to autopilot as he took position with the gun braced against his good shoulder and aimed the gun at the spirits back while it lifted Dean off of his feet by the neck.

"Go to hell," he proclaimed weakly.

The shotgun popped of its round and Ernest was gone again, dropping Dean to the ground.

Dean was heaving, coughing as he pulled air into his injured esophagus. "What the fuck is it with that guy? How the fuck is he even still here?"

Sam dropped the gun, body falling back against the muddy ground. "Did the rain put the fire out?"

"It was still going a few minutes ago. You think we got the wrong grave?"

Sam shook his head, whimpering softly as Dean helped pull him up. "Why would he be protecting the grave of someone else?"

Dean got Sam to the edge of the opening, standing behind Sam. "I'm going to boost you up Sam; you're going to have to crawl out using your good arm, okay?"

Sam nodded even though he was unsure about his strength with his head swimming the way it was, his shoulder pulsing, and the fire in his belly. "I'll try."

The older Winchester locked his fingers together and allowed Sam to step into it before using all of his strength to lift upwards. "You got it Sammy."

The sudden change in altitude had nausea bubbling in Sam's stomach; it was all he could do to keep from vomiting all over the wet grass. He reached with his good arm, fisting the long tufts of grass and pulling himself upwards, knee resting against the surface before he rolled himself over until he was staring up into the darkness.

"Atta boy Sammy," Dean praised, following after his brother seconds later.

Sam rolled his head to the side and saw an orange glow in the distance through the foliage, his brow crinkled in confusion. "It's still burning, Dean." He could sense his brother turning his head towards the light.

Dean cursed. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Protection spell?"

"Maybe," Dean decided. He moved over to where Sam was lying and gave him a once over. If it was even possible, Sam's face appeared to be paler than it had down in the hole. "We need to get the hell out of here Sam."

"What about Sheridan, Dean?" Sam frowned. "Tomorrow the grounds keeper is going to see the desecrated grave and we won't have another chance."

Dean could feel his anger flaring at his brother's insistence. He was injured but the little shit still wanted to see this damn thing through, and Dean was all for finishing hunts but this was his baby brother. "What do you suggest college boy?"

"Holy water and word rites of passage."

"Nerd," Dean teased good naturedly.

"Help me up," Sam asked after getting his nausea under control. "We don't have much time before he's back again."

Dean and Sam made quick work of getting back over to the fire-lit grave. It looked strange, blue flames mixing orange, yellow, and red ones. "Somebody has definitely messed with this thing." Dean then helped Sam sit down, close by, and handed him the shotgun Sam had lost earlier in the night. "You got my back, right?"

Sam managed a smile as well as a roll of his eyes. "You know it. Like Bert and Ernie."

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

"Riggs and Murtaugh."

Dean grinned mischievously at Sam. "Thelma and Louise."

Sam snorted, holding his aching ribs. "Seriously?"

"What? You're sexist now?"

Sam motioned back to the grave. "Get back to work Thelma. I'm freezing my ass off and this rain isn't letting up."

Dean turned back to the grave with a grin and squeezed the bottle of holy water, allowing it to trickle down into the eerie fire. "I'd totally be Louise; she's the one in charge and drives the car off the… you know."

"Whatever floats your boat, Dean."

Dean began speaking the passage rites over the grave, lifting the supposed protection spell from the grave.

Ernest Sheridan chose then to appear before them once more.

Sam wasted no time firing off rounds into the apparition. He wasn't going to let the skeleton get the upper hand again; they'd already paid for their mistakes tonight. "Rot in hell."

The rotted form of Ernest Sheridan shrieked as the protection was lifted from the bones and fire engulfed the gas covered clothes and dehydrated skin like dried leaves. Both brothers witnessed as fire engulfed the body standing before them, slowly eating away until there was nothing left along with the bones in the casket within the grave.

"Finally!"

Sam let out a breath at the realization that Ernest Sheridan was gone for good. His adrenaline ran out about then, weakness spreading through his injured body just like the fire that had consumed Sheridan's corpse.

"Sam," Dean watched his brother's upper half fall back against the wet ground. He dropped to his knees beside him. "Alright Sammy, let's get the hell out of this place before you decide to join 'em."

Sam nodded, pain flaring in his shoulder and brain pumping like an orchestra was playing in his skull. "That would be good."

Dean grabbed the weapon duffel, quickly throwing the two shotguns, small gas can, and zippo into it before zipping it up and thrusting the strap over his shoulder. He moved back over to his brother and wrapped his hand around Sam's good forearm. "On three."

Sam nodded and swallowed back the acid creeping up his throat.

"One… two… three!"

Sam was pulled upwards, trying to help as much as he could, but failing remarkably as his legs had apparently turned into giant wet noodles. His vision swam and bile burst up his throat and out of his mouth. He could hear Dean curse as Sam, down on all fours, paid tribute to the gods with 'Pinkys' grilled cheese.

As Sam finished he realized Dean's hand was resting comfortingly against his back. He was grateful for the simple contact and the reassurance it brought with it. "M'good."

"You sure?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Dean, I just want to get the hell out of here," Sam moaned, sick of being in the damn rain, wind, and in the perfect position to be struck by the lightening. This hunt had sucked donkey dick.

"Fine."

Sam was on his feet again with Dean holding on to him, trying to be as nonabrasive as humanly possible, but sucking notoriously at it when Sam had stumbled so often.

Soon they were back at the retaining walls of the cemetery, and Dean was practically holding Sam up. It was tricky, and Sam had to psyche himself up for the quick climb. Something that would have only taken about thirty seconds if in good health, had taken Sam about fifteen minutes, and with even less energy than before.

"We're almost to the car Sammy, just hold a bit longer." Dean coached. "Soon we'll be back in the cozy motel room where you can get out of those wet clothes and into the shower. I'll fix you up, feed you some soup, and you will be as good as new."

If Sam had had the energy, he would have snorted at his brother. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to take a shower, their motel room was a nasty little shack with bad heating, he was almost certain his stomach would revolt against soup, and the 'fixing up', was going to be hell.

He felt like dying.

But true to his words, Dean had gotten them back to the Impala in record time. Dean hadn't even bitched about their soaked clothes that were going to be saturating the leather seats. Sam realized his brother must be pretty worried about him if that was the case.

Dean flipped the heater to full blast after he'd tossed all of the equipment into the trunk. He'd made sure Sam was strapped in with the seatbelt before taking off, going as quickly as possible without spinning out from the rain covered roads.

"See Sammy, piece of cake."

When he received no answer, he glanced at his brother, seeing that Sam's eyes were at half-mass. His heart sped up and he reached over, shaking Sam slightly. "Uh-uh Sam. Not yet buddy, I need to get you back to the motel before you zonk out on me. I need to make sure your brains aren't trying to imitate scrambled eggs."

Sam could hear his brother speaking to him, but it almost felt like his ears were filled with sand. He tried saying something; he figured it couldn't be a good thing that his ears were filled with sand. He wondered how that had happened, he didn't remember being anywhere near the sand…

His body felt leaden, and he realized his limbs wouldn't move on his command. It didn't matter too much, because he could still hear Dean talking to him. His big brother would take care of it, would fix it, and make it all better so he wouldn't have to deal with it. He was tired, and he decided a nap would be a nice reprieve from the pain he couldn't quite remember getting in the first place.

Dean would fix it, it would all be okay. He just needed to rest for a while.

Darkness swaddled him, taking him in and allowing his graying vision to cloud into blackness.

* * *

TBC...


End file.
